


Could Never Be

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, The Final Problem, Unrequited Love, learning to let go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9346208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: After the Phone Call of Cruelty and before Molly shows up smiling to Baker Street at the end of The Final Problem.  At some point, they needed to have this conversation.  Mentions Sherlock/John.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a quick little missing scene I felt like needed to exist. It's unbeta-ed, so I apologize for any typos or stupid mistakes I didn't catch.

Molly wakes before her alarm and blinks up at the ceiling.  Her eyes hurt.  She rubs at them a bit, presses cool fingertips to the heat of the swollen bags underneath.  Oh, she knows so much better than this.  She should have had more water last night.  Less wine.  She sighs.  The sun isn’t even up yet, but neither her brain nor her bladder care much about that.

 _That’s it_ , she thinks, cleaning her teeth.  If Sherlock rings today, she won’t pick up.  She _won’t_.  She has no idea what sort of _sick_ … Why does she still _allow_ … She spits.  Cupping water from the tap in her hands, she rinses first her mouth and then the dregs of paste from the sink bowl. 

One look in the mirror, and she knows it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the exhaustion in the lines around her eyes, evidence of prolonged and pathetic weeping into glass after glass of wine until the tears and alcohol forced her into an early bed.  Hopefully with some tea and a walk in the London chill, she won’t look like a walking basket case when she shows up for work later.

While the kettle boils, she decides to just get on with it.  She knows she should get something solid in her belly, so she puts some bread in the toaster, and if that stays where it’s put, perhaps an egg or some yoghurt later.  She feeds the cat, puts on clothes, ties her hair back; none of it requires enough thinking.   Too much room is left for mulling over brilliant and dashing and probably-gay, drug addict friends and _why in the actual hell he would_ …  Why would _he make her_ _say it_?  She knows he can be brusque—mean even.  But, this—it’s _beyond_.  It’s not—

She knows he knows— _has_ known.  Has she read things wrong—again?  No.  No.  Despite what even she thinks sometimes, she’s not _actually_ an idiot. She’d thought they’d come to an understanding—after that day with new skeleton and the train man.  He’d been so kind after.  He kissed her cheek.  He _has been_ so kind... except for the drugs things.  But that’s more general, isn’t it?  That’s not about her--specifically.

She leaves for work early, hoping for a distraction.  Having her wrists deep in poor Mrs Kellings, unknown cause, will require more of her than just sitting here, thinking too much about things she cannot change, willing her twisting stomach to settle. 

\-----

In the end, it was a busy day.   She barely had time to stop for lunch, and only then was she able to check her phone to see if she’d missed any calls or got any texts.  She hadn’t.  She wills herself not to be disappointed.  When she leaves for home after her shift, out of the morgue, the world feels like it’s moving too fast.  It’s hard for her to make too much sense of anything.  She feels tired.

At home, she changes clothes and starts chopping onions and garlic.  Everything good starts that way, right?   Best to keep her hands and mind busy for at least a couple more hours.  She switches on the radio while she’s at it and does her best to sing along.  Avoid thinking about any of it.  Beyoncé lyrics.  She can do Beyoncé lyrics.

She’s drying her hands on a dishtowel when she hears the doorbell.  Instinctively, she turns down the music in case it’s a neighbor complaining at the noise.  It isn’t.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she asks, trying and failing to keep her voice steady as she stares steadfastly into Sherlock Holmes’s infuriatingly handsome face.

“Molly,” he says, voice so soft.  “May I come in?  Please?”

“Why?”  She should shut the door.  He’s only going to break her heart—again.  She knows better.

“Please,” he repeats.  He presses his upper and lower lips together.  He isn’t flirting.  He’s not trying to trick her.  At least—she doesn’t think he is.  But, this is where it always goes wrong, isn’t it.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sherlock.”  His knuckles are bruised, she can tell.  She wants to not want to know why. 

“Please.  I need to talk to you about that phone conversation and what I—said.”

Molly knows she should turn him away and get back to her dinner.  But her very body won’t let her.  Despite everything—she does.  Love him.  She can’t make herself make him go.  Shakily, she feels herself nod and opens the door before turning and letting him follow her inside.

She sits on her sofa, and he sits on the very edge of her armchair seat—like he might bolt for the door at the first loud sound.  He doesn’t waste any time, though.  “I meant it,” he says.  “I do.  I love you.”

She opens her mouth, trying to find some way to respond, but the world has gone fuzzy— warm and slanted and her heart is beating loudly in her ears and—

He holds up a hand, a gentle “wait” sort of gesture.  She can only imagine what her own face is doing.  She takes a breath and swallows.

His eyes are intense and clear.  “You, Molly Hooper, are my _friend_ ,” he says.

“Yes,” she manages, trembling.

His face falls.  Hers does too, somehow.  She knows where this is going.

“But,” she says, beating him to it.  “You’re not _in love_ with me.”  Best to just—stop with this. 

“No,” he confirms.  He sounds—sad.  She so wishes her heart didn’t plummet down to her belly.  She wishes her eyes weren’t filling with tears again.

“Then, why?  Are you really that cr-“  She shakes her head once, forcing herself to finish the word, "cruel?"

He takes a deep breath.  “I had to.  Believe me—I would never have done it if it wasn’t important.  I hope you know that.  It was part of a twisted… game--played out by a sick person.”  He pauses.  _“Not_ me, by the way—in case you were wondering.”

“Okay,” she responds.  She doesn’t understand.

“Molly, you have shown me a great number of extraordinary kindnesses over the years.  I need you to know—I do love you.  I wasn’t lying.  You are a better friend than I deserve.”

“It’s not all right,” she says, finding some strength.   She pulls her spine straight, making herself taller in her seat.  “It’s _not_ , Sherlock.”  He must know that she won’t stand for this. That he cannot continue to treat her this way.

He looks contrite, meeting her eyes for a beat before looking to his hands where they are folded on his lap.  “I know.”

“It will be, though.  Eventually.”   Molly feels the corner of her lips turn up, just a little. 

Sherlock manages a quick, sad smile as he lifts his head again. 

“What about John?” she manages.

Sherlock’s brows come together in an expression of confusion that she wouldn’t have thought him capable of.  “What about John?”

“Did you tell him, too?  What you told me?”

“Why would I…?”

“Because that’s true, too, isn’t it. But with him, it’s real.  The _in love_ thing, I mean.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to gape, speechless.

“You should,” she says.  She knows all too well the pain of this unrequited mess.  She has known for years who really holds Sherlock’s heart.  It could never be her.

Sherlock blinks three times quickly.  He opens his mouth to speak, but Molly cuts him off with a raised hand.  The cooker beeps to let her know that it’s finished preheating.

“I should go,” Sherlock says, standing.

“Yes,” Molly agrees.  She follows him to the door.

“Good bye, Molly.”  He bends to kiss her cheek, but she pulls away.  Instead, he squeezes her arm just below the shoulder.  Her own hand comes up to wrap around just above his wrist, and she cannot help but close her eyes for just a moment.  When he drops his hand to leave, she lets him go. 

“See you later, Sherlock.”

She lets him go.

 

\--End--


End file.
